Buffy Slays the Newlywed Game
by starmouse
Summary: Buffy and Spike go up against Bob Eubanks in their most ferocious battle to date. AU-ish season 4. ish. --- Chapter 5 is enthusiastic.
1. Whirlwind

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Buffy stared at the tickets in the redhead's hand.

"I didn't know they even still made that show."

Willow nodded. "It's as immortal as Bob Eubanks himself. Of course, now they have to call it the _New_ New Newlywed Game, but still. And these," she fluttered the tickets, "these are gold."

Buffy tried to focus on the rapidly moving tickets. "Actually, they look like paper--"

"--_unfortunately_," Willow continued, "they have a really stupid no gay couples rule, so I can't actually use them."

"Well, I'm sure Xander and Anya are thrilled," Buffy said, looking longingly towards the door to the training room from which she'd been pulled. She had a gut feeling that no good was going to come from her involvement in this conversation. 

_Maybe if I dodged left, then made a beeline for the street..._

Willow deflated a little. "Actually, they weren't. Anya did this whole thing about how it sounded like lots of fun to share the details of their relationship with a national audience, and Xander got really pale and slammed the door in my face." 

_Of course he did. She could have kicked herself now for not doing that very thing the instant she'd recognised that excited glint in Willow's eyes. _

"Prime time is not ready for Anya," she asserted. It was bad enough that their closest friends, frequent customers, and plumber already knew how many orgasms Anya got on the average night. It would be wrong to unleash that on the civilized, game-show-watching world. 

Was that an oxymoron?

Willow had to concede the point. "Okay, so maybe that wasn't the best option. Then again, that was kind of the _only option_, which leads to..." She thrust the tickets back into Buffy's face.

The blonde's eyes went wide, and her gut feeling laughed at her mockingly. "_Me?_" She gulped, and shook her head vigorously. "Uhn-uh. No way am I going up on national television and telling everyone where I've fantasized about 'making whoopie.' Besides," she reasoned, "I'm not even married."

Willow waved a hand. "Don't worry about it. Tara and I can throw a big hissy about gay rights, and they'll let you on to save face. Besides, they shouldn't have a problem with a factor that gives you a _dis_advantage."

"Uh, yeah, Wills, that's great. Except for one thing. Who would I go with?"

Willow just looked at her, allowing Buffy to go through the short list of possible contestants (pun alert!pun alert) herself.

_Xander's taken, and he'd giggle at the phrase 'make whoopie.' Giles, hell no. No elaboration needed. ...That's it. That's every guy I know. Well, except for... _

A dawning horror settled in her stomach at that last possibility. _She wouldn't._

"No. O-o-o-oh, no. Don't even--"

"C'mon, he'll be perfect."

"Just to clarify, Willow, my dear dear friend-who-does-not-wish-to-see me horribly-embarrassed, are we talking about _Spike?_?"

"Yes."

"No!"

_"Yes."_

"No!"

"Yes! C'mon! It'll be fun!"

Buffy jumped up and retreated to the far side of the room, behind the research table. _Weapons! Need weapons! Must kill the evil demon that has taken the body of my best friend. _"NO. It will be humiliating! He could say _a-ny-thing." _

Just thinking about the opportunities for chaos Spike would have with an unsuspecting gameshow host and a studio audience at his disposal staggered her briefly. She thought for a second, then added, "Plus, hello: evil, if temporarily incapacitated villain guy! I'm not doing it." _Dammit, where's the mace? A spikey ball on a chain can fix this mess. _Somehow, it had gone missing. She crossed her arms in front of her and settled for glaring daggers, since she didn't have any real ones at hand.

Willow, for her part, went straight for the big guns, also metaphorically. 

"..."

The Slayer's stance took on a more defensive cast. "Willow... Please. Not the resolve face..."

"..."

"*sigh*" 

She knew she was sunk. Forget about obese opera singers; when the face came out, it was over. "What did Spike say?"

"He said yes."

Buffy raised her eyebrows. "Yes? Just like that?"

"Well, the prize is a kitchen set, and his microwave just broke."

"He doesn't actually expect to _win..._ Does he?"

Willow shrugged. "He wants to do it."

Buffy hung her head. "When do we leave?"

"Oh, about an hour."

Buffy's head shot up. _"What?"  
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Buffy watched the interstate go by through the window for a while before turning back into the car's interior.

"I do _not _want to be here," she reminded it's contents, which at the moment was Willow, Tara, and--

"Aw, c'mon, Slayer. It'll be fun."  
--  
Spike. Damn his hide. --_Too late_-- He was far too happy for a vampire on his way to Game Show paradise. 'Fun' he says. As hell.

Buffy slammed her head into the headrest.. "Why does everyone keep telling me that? 'Mom, I'm going on national television to talk about my make-believe marraige to _Spike._' 'Oh, that sounds like fun, honey!'"

Spike chuckled, and leaned back in his seat as well. This _was _fun. He'd seen the possibilities inherent in this from the moment Red'd first offered him the ticket. He was going on a road trip. He was going on television. He was going to be in a prime position to embarrass the Slayer out of her bleedin' mind. He might even get a microwave. _Undeath is good. _He nudged the Slayer's foot, which had somehow drifted into his airspace. "Mum ever tell you about her crush on Bob Eubanks?"

The Slayer cracked a smile. "Hyeah. She just lo--" Buffy realized that this was dangerously close to going-with-the-flow-and-enjoying-herself. She immediately sobered. "Bob Eubanks is a stupid old man clinging to a dead career by his fingernails, and should be kicked off the air before the birth of his great-great grandson. He's probably a demon, anyway."

Spike scoffed. "Bob Eubanks is _not_ a demon."

"Bet he is. You know, it would be just like my life if he was," Buffy insisted, mainly for the sake of argument. If she kept arguing, she could avoid thinking about how civil Spike kept trying to be. She turned away to make another general statement to the car. "This whole situation is absurd, and I want to go on the record to say that I'm only in it for the overnight at the Hillerman Hotel Spa."

"Actually," Tara spoke up from the passenger's seat in front, "you're not going to the hotel."

"What do you mean?" Buffy asked, confused. "Everyone knows they provide contestant accommadations."

Spike leaned in near her ear, like he was imparting the secrets of the universe. "The taping's at nine am, Slayer."

"And?" Buffy turned to face him, before realizing that brought their faces within an inch of touching, and swinging back to front.

"I tend to burst into flame around then. Not a big problem in 'Ignore It And It Will Go Away' Sunnydale, but around here they might ask questions."

The Slayer's mind spun, and she had the logical continuation of the thought process in impressive time. This time she _did_ turn to face Spike, too incensed to care about proximity.

"We're spending the night in the _studio?"_ she hissed.

"Actually, the sound box adjacent to the studio," Willow corrected, flipping on her turning signal. "Tara made friends with the sound editor when we had our lesbian-powerfist rally over the phone." The two witches took a moment to high-five each other.

Buffy gaped . "You're serious. Not only do I have to pack for a two-day trip in thirty minutes, be horribly embarrassed in front of thousands of couch potatoes, and spend _eight _total hours in the car with _him,"_ she pointed fiercely at the smirking Spike, "but I'm going to be bunking in a _sound booth??"_

Tara turned around in her seat and spoke earnestly. "Jeff says it's actually really comfy. He used to sleep there every night until he got his apartment a few months ago. He said all you need is a sleeping bag or two, and you'll be fine."

Spike put an arm across the seat behind the gaping Slayer. "See, pet? Everything'll be just fine."

Buffy slapped at his arm. "Stay on your side, Combustible Boy!" She flopped back in her seat for a minute, sulking, before she realized Spike was enjoying watching her pain. She thrust a finger right in his face, jabbing at his nose to emphasize her words. His eyes crossed trying to focus on it. 

"You are _so _going to owe me for this, Spike. Words cannot describe how deep in debt you'll be. And if you do _anything _to embarrass me on television--"

Spike rolled his eyes and sucked her finger into his mouth.

Buffy sat frozen for a good five seconds while Spike's tongue ran up and down her index finger before regaining her senses.

  
6-Year-old Max Lawrence finished his Young Reader and looked out the window, just in time to see the pretty blonde lady in the car next to his mom's minivan tackle the man next to her to the seat. They momentarily dissappeared from view, only to appear again, this time with the lady wringing the man's neck while he pulled her hair. Now the hair-pulling, Max could identify with immediately.

He watched curiously as they tumbled down below the level of the windows again, only exposing themselves as random legs and arms while the battle raged on near the floor. At one point, one of the hands was wielding a shoe.

_Gee,_ Max thought. _They must really like each other a lot._

  
"Hey!" Willow said, in her best teacher voice. "Keep it down back there, or I'll turn this car around right now!"

"Please. Do." Buffy spat, grappling with Spike for her left heel.

"Aw, little Slayer's backing out," he taunted, arching his back and stretching his arm out to keep the shoe from her questing hands. "Doesn't want to play the little game. Afraid people're gonna _laugh_ at you?"

"Bite ME!" She screamed, and kicked herself off the door, grabbing at Spike's shirts and beltloops to pull herself up his body and towards her footwear.

"Grabby!" Spike shot.

"Brat!" Buffy returned.

"Bitch!"

"Asshole!"

_"Separate!"_ Tara shouted, hand outstreched and glittering.

Buffy and Spike shot to opposite sides of the car, and seat belts looped around them, apparently of their own volition. Because they were temporarily magic seat belts, they also wrapped around their mouths, effectively both trapping and silencing them.

With a last icy look, Tara turned back around in her seat and adjusted her own seatbelt. Willow reached over and patted her hand. "Good job, honey. That's much better."

The brunette witch smiled back. "I agree. How much longer?"

"Oh, three and a half hours."

  
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	2. The Big Time

  
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This turned out to be an optimistic estimate. They arrived at the studio four hours and an extremely traumatized Arby's later. They were met by a profusely-sweating suit. When he saw Willow he let out a little whimper, then smiled wanly and jogged over. 

"Ms. Rosenburg? I'm John Galt. The," he took her hand and shook it a few times, "head of contestants coordinations. I believe we spoke over the phone?"

Willow nodded regally. "Yes, we did. These are my friends, and this is Tara McClay." 

John turned to Tara with a desperately wide smile. "Ms. McClay. Lovely to meet you, just lovely."

Tara, for her part, merely eyed the nervous man's poferred hand until he retracted it. He straightened, patting at his jacket like he was looking for something, anything, to grip. "Yes, well. I would just like to say, on behalf of the studio and it's affiliates, how much we appreciate your understanding in this matter. We realize this is a ...delicate subject, and. Um, we would just like to thank you for the maturity with which you have approached this, and not raising a lawsuit..."

Willow cocked her head, furrowing her brows in confusion. "I'm sorry, did we say that?"

Spike and Buffy set their, well, _Buffy's_ bags down and watched.

Spike smirked with shared evil while the two witches manipulated the increasingly panicked studio representative.. His respect for the brunette rose astronomically watching her play the part of the deeply offended underdog. Good to know there was a spirit there, after all. 

Not that he didn't already have seatbelt burns as proof of that.

They'd moved on to the part where they detailed exactly what would be necessary for them to forget this 'unfortunate incident' had ever occured. Yep, he stuck by his previous assessment. _Pure evil. _Too bad he had to experience in vicariously these days. About all he was good for now was mischief. _Like a bloody leprechaun, I am, _he thought. His eyes went to the little blonde leaning against the wall. _Then again, it does have it's perks. _Like all the feels he'd copped during their little tussle in the backseat.

"Wonderful!" he heard Galt exclaim.

"Hey," Spike nudged the blonde, "looks like we're up."

Buffy looked up from her brooding. "What?" John Galt slipped past the smug looking witches to shake Spike's hand.

"How nice to meet a friend of Miss Rosenburg. I'm John Galt, and we're so pleased to have you on the show, Mr..."

"Sangue. Spike Sangue. 'S not my christian name, but it does me during the day! And might I say how very excited I am to be here," Spike said, shaking firmly.

Galt winced, and pulled his hand away. "Pleasure's ours," he turned to the small blonde standing slightly behind Mr. Sangue, like the perfect little housewife. She looked young. _Probably threw away an education to get hitched to this inane loser. _He put on his ignorant people voice. "And you must be the little missus! You keep this devil in line? *wink wink*"

There was a pregnant pause.

"I certainly do my best," Buffy deadpanned. She heard a snort from the vampire beside her, and studiously ignored it.

"Good good," John said, shaking her hand._ Yowch! Like husband like wife. _He pulled his hand away, discreetely massaging life back into it. "I didn't catch your name, ma'am," he tried to stick to the script.

"Buffy Su--"she shot a glance at Spike, who was not-so-desperately attempting to stifle his inappropriate mirth, "--Buffy _Sangue."_

"Well, Buffy, it's just great to meet you. Are you excited about being on the show?"

Buffy's face went carefully blank again. "Golly, I'm so excited I just don't know what to do with myself."

_"So excited,"_ Willow cut in, before Buffy made Spike explode, "that they just had to see the studio before tomorrow. Would it be alright if we took a quick peek?"

"Well, I--"

"He'd let us do it if we were straight," Tara stage-whispered to Willow. John Galt's face took on a panicked sheen.

"Be my guests! Please, look around all you want, ladies, and --er-- gentleman. I'd be happy to show you around the entire premisis. It's just, there's a meeting starting in about--"

"Oh, we can let ourselves out," Willow said, urging Buffy and Spike down the hall.

John hesitated. "That's not really--"

"What, you think we're going to _steal _something?" Tara asked, offended. "Is that what homosexuals do?"

The head of contestants coordinations let out an eep sound and retreated down the hall as fast as his spindly legs could take him. The - usually-- demure witch watched him go. 

She turned back to the other three, who were standing stunned, and smiled.

"This whole 'bitch' thing's really fun."

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_An hour later._

"Wow," Buffy said with little real enthusiasm. "It _is _a sound booth. Neat."

Spike, on the other hand, was looking around the mostly black enclosure with wide, excited eyes. Most of the small room was taken up by control tables, which were in turn filled with lit switches and slide adjustors, glowing brightly in the darkness, like extremely organized stars. 

"Look at all those buttons," he said in a reverent murmer. He leaned in to Buffy conspiritorally. "Could do some damage in here, pet. Give Bobby the shock of his life with a flick of the finger."

Buffy rolled her eyes. "You know, the more time I spend with you, the more I think you're lying about your age. 200? I don't think so. I'm leaning towards," she waved an open hand in a see-saw motion, "eh, eight, nine years old." She pulled her suitcase from his hand and started dissassembling it on the floor. _Toothbrush, toner, floss, moisturizer, shamp--_she stopped. "Shower. There's no shower, is there?" she looked up at Spike, horror dawning across her face.

He offered her a solomn headshake.

The Slayer let out a little whimper and collapsed on the carpet. "Why does life hate me?"

Spike plopped down in a desk chair and gave it an experimental spin. "Dunno," he said off-handedly. "Maybe you pissed 'im off."

"This is all Willow's fault," Buffy lamented, pulling herself off the floor. "She loves doing this kind of thing to me. She and Tara are probably eating _my _fruit basket as we speak!"

The vampire left off 'adjusting' the toggles on the sound board to raise an eyebrow at her. "Your fruit basket?"

"In_ my _hotel room! Watching _my_ complementary cable, and getting massages from _my _fully outfitted spa!"

"Well, actually, it's their trip and _their _fruit basket, and you're taking _their _tv appearence," Spike felt obliged to correct her. He shifted in the chair, and felt a sqeak. _Ooh, what's this?_

Buffy didn't respond, but didn't keep whining, either. Instead, she surveyed the limited floor space available to them. Yep. Her first impression had been right. There was no way they'd be able to lay out two sleeping bags in here. One would probably work, but she was refusing to contemplate sharing a sleeping bag with the vampire ...who was unscrewing the seat of the spinny chair?

She walked up and gave the wheel stalk a kick. "Hey! Stop that, you creep."

He treated her to an innocent look. "What?"

"Don't play dumb with me. You were unscrewing the seat. You ass."

Spike quirked an eyebrow, then did a little jig in his new chair. The squeak was gone. "Correction. I _fixed _the seat."

_He fixed the seat. _

Spike did a good deed. 

Spike did a good deed? "Oh," she said, surprised. "Uh, okay. .Good for you."

The eyebrow went higher. "If you say so."

He turned back around and started playing with the switches. Behind him, Buffy was kicking herself.

_Why am I being such a goober? It's not like I care if he thinks I'm a whiny baby or not. He's just the friendly neighborhood supervillain slash comic relief slash albatross. It doesn't matter what he thinks. I _don't_ care._

It wasn't working. She stuffed all her toiletries back in her suitcase and yanked the zipper. The weird feeling wouldn't go away, so she fell back on the mental mantra that always made her feel better in situations like this.

_I could _totally_ kick his ass._ She smiled. _Yeah, that worked. All better._

"I'm going to find a bathroom," she said. Spike didn't respond in any way. She rolled her eyes and rolled her suitcase out the door.

When she was gone, Spike did look up. He watched the doorway for a few seconds, before shaking his head and turning back to the funtime world of electronics mischief.

@ @ @

  
Buffy found a women's restroom in the hall just outside the Newlywed Game studio. Since she wasn't sure if she'd be able to do anything more than fix her make-up in the morning, she performed a thorough scrubbing in one of the sinks. The studio had long since closed, but she still kept her suitcase propped against the door while she spongebathed._ Make that sock bathe, _she corrected herself, and wrung out the frothing sock. 

One look at the industrial brown paper towels had been enough necessity to spur her spirit of invention into seeking another sponge. If there was one thing she was good at, it was improvisation. _Drumsticks, pool cues, pencils... _While she carefully ran the razerblade over her frothy legs, she considered some of the forms her stakes had taken in the past. _Pumpkin patch signs, chair legs, and what's Spike's deal, anyway?_

She paused at the sudden subject switch, then decided the deserted bathroom was a safe enough place to let her thoughts wander down that increasingly confusing road. She switched legs.

She'd been getting a really weird vibe from Spike lately. There wasn't any appreciable difference in his behavior, but sometimes, when they were arguing, or, you know, beating each other senseless, she'd pick up on some strange signals, like he didn't think it was fighting. Like he thought it was ...foreplay.

Of course, the thought made her shudder, Buffy hastily added to her internal monologue, and gave her legs a no-nonsense swipe to prove it. 

So desperate was she to show herself who was boss, she failed to realize the less than wise combination of large, disgust-induced shudders and razorblades.

"Dammit!" The soap stung at the new wound. "Bastard razor," she muttered. _That's what I get for thinking of Spike as non-disgusting. Lots of blood._

She hurridly finished the shaving job and patted the lather off with one of the brown paper towels. After a second, the blood welled up again in the pale slash stretching nearly from ankle to knee. She held the paper towels down with one hand and reached for her boxer shorts with the other. These self inflicted maimings usually stopped bleeding pretty quickly, but the scabs they left behind were always so attractive. She swore again when she realized the skirt she'd been planning on wearing tomorrow would probably not be the best option. _Good thing I always overpack. Slacks it is._

After a few minutes, the bleeding had stopped, and she tossed the red spotted napkins in the trash can before finishing her beauty regimen and repacking her bag.

_Next stop, lots of beauty sleep._

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As it happened, 'next stop' turned out to be a loud row.

"No!"

"Oh, come _on,_ Slayer!"

"I. Said. No. I don't even see why you care."

"Just because I don't feel the cold doesn't mean I shouldn't get a sleeping bag."

"Actually, that's exactly what it means. And since there is exactly_ one_ sleeping bag present, _you _in a sleeping bag," she jabbed a finger angrily, "and _me _in a sleeping bag," she rammed a thumb to her own chest, "equals _us _in _a _sleeping bag! And one thing I can guarentee you: In no version of this argument, in any universe, am I going to be sharing a sleeping bag with you."

"Why the hell not?? I don't see what the big deal is!"

Buffy stared at him incredulously, being sure to keep her eyes neck height or higher. "Maybe if you put your clothes back on," she said slowly, "it would be less of a 'deal.'"

Spike looked down at his own pale form in confusion. "I'm wearing clothes."

Buffy closed her eyes to keep them from drifting. "Correction: you're wearing boxers. That does _not _count."

"You're bloody lucky you're getting that," he muttered, but before she could do more then snap her eyes open in shock, he continued. "Besides, you're wearing boxers too, pet."

Buffy forcibly shoved the unwelcome images into a deep dark hole of her mind reserved for Bad Thoughts. "I'm also wearing underwear and a shirt. You are not."

"Yeah, I really don't see why you're being so bloody weird about this."

"_I'm _being weird about this?"

"Yes! You're," he cast about for an appropriate word. "You're wigging," he settled.

Buffy fell into angry silence.

Spike countered with one of his own, the two enemies glaring menacingly at each other across the sound booth.

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	3. Intolerable Living Conditions

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Buffy fell into angry silence.

Spike countered with one of his own, the two enemies glaring menacingly at each other across the sound booth.

  
_. . . Two hours later.  
_  
Buffy stared at the ceiling. It was black. The walls in the edges of her vision were also black. The entire room was black. The head next to her was white. The arm draped over her was pretty white, too. The knee she could feel brushing against her own was also white, she knew, though that was _under_ the covers.

She shifted uncomfortably, trying to squeeze into one side of the large sleeping bag. _How did I let him talk me into this? Stupid irrational vampires. _ She flipped over as smoothly as she could, so as not to wake the stupid, sneaky vampire, and huddled her body as far as she could into the side.

_Good. This is good. No more vampire touching. _

Spike shifted in his sleep.

..._And the vampire touching's back._

Buffy forced herself further into the zipper, scootching against the metal in an attempt to escape Spike's seemingly neverending draping. There was a catching sensation near her knee, and she felt the wet reopening of her scab against the metal teeth of the zipper. In seconds, drips were hitting her other shin, tickling lightly. She squirmed.

_Great. Now I've got insomnia, itching, _and_ bloodstains. Eahh...!_ The itching at the now welling wound wasn't getting any less noticeable. She raised her leg and rubbed it against the interior of the sleeping bag. That worked for a few seconds, but without something to staunch the flow, the blood just kept coming. There was already an unpleasant sticky wet area in the fabric around her legs, and _it was itching again!_

With some maneuvering, Buffy managed to get her hand down on her knee, and pressed against the wound for a while, waiting for the bleeding to stop. Good plan, except it entailed her backing up against Spike, who promptly wrapped an arm around her and snuggled closer.

"Uh..." Buffy stilled, waiting to see if he was going to wake up, but the vampire just nuzzled at her neck a bit before settling back down. "...Okay, this is fun," she muttered. "Cuddling with the bloodthirsty demon on the floor of the sound booth. My life is truly bliss." She pulled her hand off her knee and felt a splash of relief when the itchy, drippy feeling didn't return. The bleeding had stopped.

And she was still being spoon-hugged. By Spike. She brought her hand up tentatively, not wanting to wake him, and pulled lightly on his arm, hoping he'd get the hint and do more of that tossing and turning he'd been doing all night, this time away from her.

He growled.

And then he licked her.

"Ah, ah, okay, okay, this is weird." Buffy squinched her eyes shut as Spike's tongue rubbed at her throat. "Ehh... Not fun, not fun, not fun. Eh!" _God, is he dreaming? If he starts moaning... _The ..._licking_, didn't seem to be migrating to any other spot; he was just focusing hard, business like licks on her. . . Throat.

She glanced down at her own hand, still on his arm. Even in the dark, she could see the stain of her own blood smeared on it.

There was another growl, and a murmured, "...Slayer..." by her ear.

_Great. I'm providing props while he fantasizes about killing me. _

Buffy shifted a little. Spike kept nuzzling at her neck.

_If he breaks the skin, I'm waking him up, _she decided. _I'm too tired to deal with this now..._

  
Another hour or so later, Spike drifted awake to find the Slayer wrapped in his arms.

_Well_, he thought, taking inventory of the position. _Isn't this interesting..._

He tucked his head back against her shoulder and went back to sleep.

  
Spike awoke to a kick in the gut, then swearing, and a scream. 

"Wha' the--" he said groggily, trying to get his bearings. He was on a floor, in a thrashing sleeping bag? _Oh right. Studio._

"Get off! Get off!" 

"Oh, shit! Sorry, sorry!" The shouting to his immediate left, ie, into his left ear, served to bring the vampire back from the realm of Morphius lightening quick. He actually opened his eyes.

When he'd gone to bed, he'd been in a sleeping bag with the Slayer.

Now, he was in a sleeping bag with the Slayer and a slightly puffy young man with sideburns. Buffy was propped up on her elbows, gasping and staring at the young man sprawled across the top of the sleeping bag. She'd obviously enjoyed the same unpleasant awakening Spike had. The whelp turned to look at the vampire. He seemed a little dazed.

"Mornin', mate," Spike drawled. "Think you're gonna get up sometime?"

As if suddenly realizing he was still in the sleeping bag with the couple, the hapless young man scrambled up, succeeding in kneeing Spike in the thigh. Spike grunted in protest.

"Christ, guys, I am _so_ sorry. Are you okay?"

Spike glanced over at Buffy, who seemed to be getting her breath back. He smiled up at the panicking kid he dearly wished to eviscerate. "We're dandy."

The guy shook his head and leaned against one of the soundboards. He was wearing khakis and a green polo shirt sporting the studio's emblem.

"Wow. Sorry. I totally forgot you two were gonna be here today. Tara's friends, right? I'm Jeff."

Buffy finally recovered from the shock of waking to someone tripping and falling on you, and glanced at Spike. He seemed disoriented and slightly homicidal. She looked back up at the portly sound guy.

"It's .painful to meet you, Jeff. I'm Buffy, and this is Spike." She whapped exhibit A in the chest. Bare chest, she couldn't help but be reminded.   
She shrugged it off. "Thanks for letting us, uh, camp."

Jeff shrugged off the thanks. "No problem. Glad I could help. I know what it's like to have allergies, man," he comiserated with a slightly confused Spike. "Peanuts are enough of a hassle. I can't imagine not being able to go in sunlight."

Realization dawned in Spike's head. "Oh. _Right._ Sun allergy," he nodded. "Yeah, that's a bitch, right enough."

"Yeah, uh huh," Jeff nodded. He realized the two blondes were still in the sleeping bag. Probably meant they weren't wearing much. "Look, sorry again. I'm just gonna make myself scarce while you two get dressed and whatever. I need to start setting up about eight thirty."

Buffy nodded. "Right. We'll make like trees before then. Oh, hey, can we leave our luggage in here..?"

"No prob," Jeff said, opening the door to make a discreet exit. "And good luck on the show today!"

He left and Buffy beamed after him. "Right!" She rolled her eyes and landed on Spike. "So. Sleep well?"

"Like a rock. That has nice dreams."

Buffy narrowed her eyes at his smug expression, remembering the neck incident the last night. 'Nice dreams' for him probably translated to chaos, mayhem, kill, kill, kill. _Mumbling _my_ name. That bastard. _

Oh wait, he's evil; it's allowed. 

"Right... Good for you." She hastened to unzip the sleeping bag, and escape Spike's eerily relaxed mood. She hopped up and began pulling things out of her bag for as discreet a bathroom trip as possible.

"Buffy-- Bloody hell, your legs!"

"Huh?" Buffy looked down. "Oh, dammit!" _How attractive. I didn't realize it had oozed so much._

"Buffy... There's blood all over your legs." He sounded a little dazed.

"A razor attacked me." He was still staring blankly at her crusty disgusting legs. "Don't get too excited. I didn't bleed out."

"Wha...? ...Oh! Right. Uh, good. You'd, ah, better go get changed, Slayer."

Buffy watched him for a second. "Yeah..." she said slowly. "I'll be right back."

Spike looked up at her face and smiled at her. "We're gonna have some fun, now, luv."

****

"Welcome to the New New Newlywed Game, where couples see how well they really know each other by responding to a series of questions, predicting their spouse's answer! Lets meet our eight contestants."

John Cramer took over as the screens on either side of the set zoomed in on the first couple. "First, we have Kathy and Matt Whiteside, of Galesburg, Illinois. She was so excited about the wedding, she forgot her dress when they flew home for the ceremony! They had to postpone for a day, while a neighbor had it shipped." 

There was a smattering of laughter. The plump, polyester-clad woman playfully slapped her mustached husband on the arm, laughing along with the audience.

"Next are Allison and Bob Mitchell of Alamogordo, New Mexico. They met at a monster truck rally! He had gone to see the trucks ...and she had gone to pick up guys!"  
,  
More half-hearted applause from the audience. The buck-toothed blonde in plaid threw an arm over his wife's shoulders, smiling proudly.

"Sarah and Tom Johnson hail from Wichita, Kansas. They both enjoy hiking --which came in handy after their bus tour accidently left them in the smoky mountains on their honeymoon, four miles from their hotel!"

The matching redheads both smiled stiffly as the crowd laughed.

The camera shifted to the last couple, two slender blondes sitting as far apart as the loveseat would allow. 

"Buffy and Spike Sangue live in Sunnydale, California. Buffy's mother wasn't initially happy about Spike's intentions towards her daughter; the first time they met, she hit him over the head with an axe!"

The crowd silently repeated the sentence to itself. Except for two young wiccans towards the middle, who were laughing hysterically. Buffy glared at her friends.

"They think they're _soo_ funny," she hissed at Spike. "Wait till I get off national television, they'll get a laugh."

"Now now pet. You can't kill your friends. That would be wrong."

"And now your host, Boooob Eubanks!"

Everyone clapped, including Willow and Tara, as the row of contestant booths swung out to make an avenue down the middle, and Bob Eubanks, not looking a day over 65, trotted out onto stage.

He stopped dead center, and smiled at the still cheering crowd. 

"Welcome to the New New Newlywed Game. Someone once asked, how come at weddings the bride looks stunning and the groom looks stunned? We'll find out that answer and many more when we start our game _right_ after this."

  
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[Insert Shampoo Here]

******* 


	4. Sisters in Arms

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Round One  
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The lights came back on.

"Welcome back. For those of you just joining us, I'm Bob Eubanks, and this is the New New Newlywed Game. The wives have been secluded offstage, and we're going to ask their husbands a few questions. Their job is to correctly predict how their wives will respond to the same question. Matt, lets start with you."

*  


  
"Well. Isn't this fun." Buffy looked around the 'soundproof booth' into which she and the other three wives had been herded.

The plump brunette beamed. "Oh, yes. I'm just having the time! This has all been so great!" The other two nodded aggreement.

"And the hotel's just beautiful," the truck-lover added. More nods.

_Uh oh. They're bonding. Without me._ "Yeah!" Buffy blurted. "That hotel; it's just gorgeous. And the spa..!"

Truck-lover groaned. "I had the most amazing massage."

Buffy tried not to look too pathetic. "Really?"

The brunette that forgot her wedding dress waved her hands in front of her. "And I got a manicure! She rubbed in all these oils; makes me wish I had time to go to the salon more often!"

Truck-lover turned to her curiously. "Do you work?"

"No, but it just seems like there's always _something_ that needs doing around the house. You know how it is: cleaning, laundry, cooking... Do you do much cooking at home?"

"Yeah, yeah. I know my husband would like me to cook more,,, but I manage to bake about three times a week."

The conversation rapidly deteriorated into bizarre mom-talk that left Buffy wide-eyed in fear. _My God. Someday this will be me. I too will know the difference between broiling and steaming._ She realized that the redheaded hiker hadn't joined in the conversation. She sidled over, edging around the two chefs.

"So! Having fun?"

The redhead turned to her and regarded her for a moment. "Yes. Lots. This is very enjoyable." She blinked a bit. "Do you cook?" she asked, almost like she cared.

Buffy gigged. "Me? No. _Way_ no. The last time I tried to make cookies, my mo--uh, _husband_ had to greet the fire department at the door."

Redhead nodded. "That's nice. Your husband is a very attractive man. Congratulations on successfully binding him to your bed." 

Off Buffy's stunned look, she added, "Metaphorically, of course. Unless you're into that kind of thing."

Buffy stared. _My God, it's Anya. Surely there can't be two of them in the world. _

"Uh, thank you?" She cast about for something to say. "..You too."

The redhead shrugged. "He is adequet."

Buffy stared some more. _Wiggy._

This was followed by several minutes of silence in their corner of the room, while across from them the conversation shifted from interior decorating on a low budget to quitting jobs for their husbands and married lives.

Eventually, the awkwardness of the lull seemed to sink in to the redhead. She turned to Buffy. "Do you work?"

The Slayer jumped. "Me? I, yeah. I'm a..." she cast about, "I'm a florist." She smiled, somehow liking the sound of that. "Yeah, I make flower art."

Redhead nodded gravely. "Very commendable."

"What do you do?"

"I exterminate."

"Exterminate? Like, bugs?"

There was a pause, where the redhead seemed to be seriously debating her answer. "Metaphorically speaking," she finally replied.

Before buffy could decide whether it would be wise to quiz her, they were interrupted.__

"What about you two?"

Buffy and Redhead both looked up.

"Huh?"

Truck-lover grinned. "Do your husbands ever sleep nude," she repeated, eyes dancing.

Beside her, Polyester giggled, then waited expectantly.

Buffy's eyes went wide, remembering. --

_"You're lucky you're getting that."--_

Polyester nudged Truck-lover. "Look, you made her blush."

Truck-lover smirked, sending Buffy a sudden image of Faith. "Please," she scoffed. "Young couple like them? They probably go at it every night anyway."

Redhead turned to her, apparently intrigued. "Well?"

Buffy edged away. "Well what?"

"How often do you and your husband have sex?" Brunette Polyester clarified. Perhaps sensing Buffy's discomfort, she added: "From one wife to another, of course."

Buffy looked around, and realized everyone was genuinely waiting for a reply, all comradery and girl talk.

"Uh..."

The door opened. A balding guy with a headset poked in. "The guys are done. You ladies ready to go back out?"

Buffy jumped up. "And rarin'. Let's hit the hallway. Burn heel."

*********  
[Insert tires here.]

*********

  
I know the chapter's short. = ( 

I'm trying to make them correspond with the actual commercial breaks. And just so you're warned ahead of time, all game questions are genuine; carefully stolen from the reruns. You'd be _amazed _what you can hear, watching straight hours of Tivo'd episodes_._

....Not that I do that. I have a life, after all!

...*Ahem*...__

~Star Mouse 


	5. Sunday Bloody Sunday

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Still Round One  
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Buffy and the other wives trotted out onto stage. For some reason, the studio audience applauded. Jogging to her little loveseat and waiting 'husband,' Buffy searched the crowd for Willow and Tara. She found them, red-faced and smiling.  
_  
They've been laughing. That can't be a good sign._

She looked back towards stage just as Redhead was climbing into her booth. Her husband, also carrot-top, was watching Buffy. When he caught her looking back, he winked.

_He winked?_

She got a major shiver --not the good kind-- and studiously looked away as she focused on climbing into her own booth.

"Hello, luv. Have fun chattin' with the married birds?"

She stared at his moving lips. _Spike-sex?_

Shaking off her distraction, Buffy opened her mouth to reply, but got a good look at Spike's face first. Her brows drew together of their own volition.

"Why do you look so smug?"

"Smug? Whatever do you mean?"

"Don't think I don't know that look. What did you say?"

"Shh, luv, we're on." He took her hand and patted it. She tried not to stare at their joined digits. _Spike-sex?_

"Welcome back to the Newlywed Game! Gentlemen, we've recorded your answers on cards that you now have in front of you. Each time your prediction matches your wife's answer, you'll get five points. The one couple with the most points at the end of the show wins a very nice grand prize that's been selected especially for them. You all ready? Kathy, we'll start with you." Kathy nodded gravely. Bob continued.

"Kathy, how would your husband say you would complete this sentence? (This is you talking.) 'My husband's blank doesn't seem to go with his what?'"

Kathy's brow puckered in deep thought. After an indeterminable length of time, Bob repeated the question.

"Um..."

"C'mon, Kathy. His _blank_ doesn't seem to go with his _what_?"

Kathy seemed to be having an existential crisis. "...His ...shoes don't seem to go with his pants? I don't know."

"Okay, Kathy. You said your husband's shoes don't go with his pants. _Your husband_ said..." Kathy's life partner held up the first of the blue cards he'd been holding in his lap. In bold marker, it read--

"His brain doesn't seem to go with his head."

There was confused silence from Kathy.

"My head's small," her husband explained.

Kathy cocked her head. "But that doesn't--"

"Allison! How did your husband say you would complete this sentence: My husband's blank doesn't seem to go with his what?"

Allison, having had a little more time to think about her answer, answered readily enough.

"His eyes don't seem to go with his face."

"And Bob, you said...."

A slightly indignant Bob raised his card.

"Your shoes don't seem to go with your pants."

"That's ironic," Buffy muttered.

"Buffy!" 

She jumped. "Huh?" 

"Your husband's _what_ doesn't seem to go with his _what?_"

_Blank. Her mind was totally blank. Husband's what? What husband?_  
_  
_She felt Spike nudge her.

"Uh! His ...his..."

"His _what_ doesn't seem t--"

"His hair doesn't seem to go with his eyebrows!" she shouted the first thing that came to her mind.

There was a bark of laughter by her ear. She turned to read the card in Spike's lap, as Bob Eubanks announced

"Spike said... His eyebrows don't go with his hair! Five points for couple number three!" 

The audience cheered the first score of the round. Buffy was still stunned by the choking sensation of public quizzing. The stunned sensation deepened when she realized the answers matched.

_No way! We got one right? What's he doing?_ Spike was leaning towards her, an evil spark in his eye. She suddenly remembered the reruns. _Oh, we have to peck-kiss now._ She leaned around to Spike, but instead of kissing him, she put her hand on his cheek to block their lips from the crowd and cameras, and whispered, "Watch out for the redheads," into his mouth.

She pulled back, mission accomplished and disaster averted. Spike frowned and grabbed her face, performing the same maneuver. 

"What?" he whispered.

She squirmed. "The redheads. Now let go of my face."

"No, what are you talkin' about?

Tara and Willow raised identical eyebrows as Buffy and Spike kept kissing.

"I had no idea they were into each other," Willow said.

Tara shrugged. She'd had her suspicions.

"The redheads. The wife's got some Annie the Android thing going on. When you get the chance, check out the guy for creep factor."

Bob Eubanks was looking nervously towards the camera people. Back at the still-embracing couple.

Spike and Buffy finally broke apart. When Buffy saw the looks everyone was giving them, she blushed darkly.

Spike just smirked.

Bob Eubanks glanced back at the cameras. "O-kay... Looks like the honeymoon isn't quite over!"

Spike laughed with the rest of the audience, while Buffy dearly wished for a trap door in the ugly loveseat booth. What had Xander said? _The earth never opens up and swallows you when you _want _it to._

Maybe another Bezoar. That hadn't been so bad. 

...Compared to the knowing look that redneck in the third row was sending her. Oh God.

"--Sarah, you said his blood type doesn't seem to go with his astrological sign. Tom, you said ...bloodtype doesn't go with your astrological sign! Five points!"

Buffy frowned as the odd couple quickly kissed. She closed her eyes and put a hand to her head. This was exhausting. _I wanna go home._

Bob Eubanks turned to his next question card.

"Question number two: If you had a button that controlled your wife's Whoopie Interest, would she say that lately you'd like to turn it up, turn it down, turn it off, or turn it on?"__

Buffy's eyes snapped open.

"Allison, we'll start with you."

"Down," she answered promptly.

"Down?"

She grinned at her plastically-smiling husband. "Definitely down. He has a hard time keeping up."

"O-kay. Bob, you said..." card displayed, "Turn it down!"

The audience clapped.

"She's an absolute nympho, Bob."

"Buffy! Up, Down, Off, or On?"

Buffy desperately tried to think of the _least_ embarrassing answer. It didn't matter what Spike had said. It wasn't like they were actually trying to win, right?

"Uh, ...on?"

"And Spike said... On! You two are on a roll"

Buffy had two seconds to be shocked before Spike swooped in and captured her mouth in what was definitely _not_ a peck.

Willow was very distraught. "I don't get it! How could I have not noticed this?"

Tara patted her shoulder.

Buffy was also ...slightly distraught. 

It was probably a blessing that all rational thought had fled her mind. Otherwise, she would have been much more concerned with the fact that they were in front of a live studio audience.

As it was, she was nearly ready to do something in the way of reciprocation when Spike suddenly pulled away, looking innocently towards the man gaping from behind the podium.

He pulled himself together and read the next question.

Buffy wasn't quite there yet.

.........._Spike lips. Lips of Spike._

"...A water jug?"__

Not so ba--Ack! Television!

She glanced at him, slouching next to her, thighs touching through denim and 40%Rayon, 60%Polyester.

"Maybe a yamoulka?"

He was smirking. Apparently unconcerned with the fact that _she_, unlike some other people sitting in this booth, actually had friends, teachers, and family members that watched television on a fairly regular basis.

"Thermos?"

_Damn him._

...And his lips.

"Buffy--"

She jolted back to the game at large. Bob Eubanks was looking at her.

"...How do you think Spike said you would complete this sentence: In a pinch, I'll bet my wife's bra would make a darn good _blank_."

Buffy blinked.

_Did he just say that?_

She turned to Spike. He raised his eyebrows expectantly.

Putting aside the bizarrity of the question itself, Buffy racked her brain for an answer. But not just any answer.

The _right_ answer.

She'd show _him_ a kiss.

_...bra would make a darn good....what?_

Spike watched the thoughts flit across her face with interest. She was so cute when she was suffering inner turmoil.

Too bad she'd never get it.

"Buffy?" the sadistic bastard prompted from behind the podium.

Buffy grabbed an answer out of her pile.

"A slingshot?"

"Buffy, you said slingshot. Spike you said..."

Buffy tried not to look too eager as she swivelled to see the blue card Spike was holding.

"...a jockstrap!" Eubanks finished.

In the audience, Willow and Tara burst out laughing.

Buffy stared. "A _WHAT??"_

"Well, y'see--" Spike started. He was smirking. That _bastard!_ Before anyone, including Spike, realized what she was doing, she'd grabbed the card, rolled it into a tube, and started beating him about the head with it.

"You bastard! I swear to God, if my mother sees this, I will feed your ashes to a goldfish!"

Spike did his best to defend himself. "Ey! Lay off...Sla-uh,sweetie! No-! Sto--Bloody--" He grabbed the card before he got a cardboard concussion, and threw it across the stage, out of harm's way. "Christ, Summers! Homicidal maniac!"

Buffy whapped him on the shoulder with her open palm. "Pot, kettle! You probably did _less_ damage when you were drinking the blood of the innocent, you sadistic jerk!"

They seethed for a moment, before a choking gasp caught Buffy's attention. She looked to her left, out into ...the .....audi..ence?

_Oh, shit.  
_  
Tara and Willow were caught in nearly silent, hysterical convulsions. Willow's occasional hiccuping gulps of air were the only sounds in the studio.

_Uh... _She looked over at Spike. He waggled his tongue at her.

There was a cough from the podium.

"W-we'll be right back, after these messages from our sponsor. Don't... go away..."

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[Insert Cat Food Here]  
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